


The Tourney at Tarth

by AlynnaStrong



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action, Battle of weapons and words, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Shades of Disney's Brave, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-09 13:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlynnaStrong/pseuds/AlynnaStrong
Summary: Brienne of Tarth fights for the right to choose her own betrothal or lack thereof.  Ser Jaime is sent by the Crown to put an end to this nonsense.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few liberties are taken with canon (such as Pod being Jaime’s squire), but not too many.

The port of Tarth was jam-packed with small vessels: light cogs, cutters, a few passenger galleys, and one-masted sailing ships beyond count. The queen’s pleasure craft, _Cersei’s Smile_ was by far the largest and required considerable persuasion directed at the dockmaster to find room to berth. The reluctant Kingsguard dispatched to Tarth on diplomatic duty took in the scene with growing astonishment.

“Lord Tarth’s tourney has generated more attention than expected. King Robert will not be pleased,” Ser Jaime remarked to his squire, Podrick Payne.

“I d-don’t understand S-Ser. Lords throw t-tourneys for engagements all the t-time. What’s s-so special about this one?”

Ser Jaime grimaced as Podrick helped him don his courtly garb, including rings and a heavy gold chain. He never wore jewelry if given the choice. Rings hampered his sword grip, and chains weighed him down. The Stormlanders were particularly prickly about the Kingslayer business, however. He’d been warned that his white cloak would earn him nothing but scorn.

“The problem is, Pod, that the bride-to-be isn’t very keen on marrying. For years, she kept refusing matches her father would propose. He let it go on for a while, but last year he took a bad chill. He feared he’d die without seeing his only child married, so he put his foot down. He said he’d hold a tourney to find someone who could take care of her if she’d agree to abide by the results.”

“S-sounds pretty reasonable to me. Indulgent, even. I still don’t s-see the king's objection.”

“The maid in question is quite a stubborn lass, it seems. She decided to wedge up the works by entering the tourney in her own name. If she’d signed up as a mystery knight, we’d probably not be here. She says she can take care of herself as well as any man could. King Robert heard of this and decided that such blatant defiance of patriarchal authority could not stand. So here we are. With any luck we can settle this with words instead of blows.”

Jaime scratched at the itchy stubble on his cheeks. He hated sailing – boredom, filth, and poor food – and he hated being away from Cersei for weeks at a time to visit a desolate rock in the middle of Shipbreaker’s Bay. King Robert spared no care for his opinion, however, and being a Stormlander himself, wanted the matter handled without spreading any tensions in the region. The lady couldn’t possibly think she could win, after all. She was just trying to make some twisted point to her father. Such a show of weakness could undermine his whole house.

“Are you going to enter the melee, S-Ser?”

“Yes, if she won’t see reason, I’ll enter to ensure this ends well. I’d not claim the prize for myself, of course, but give her back to her father to do with as he chooses. He should have plenty of marriageable options with all the men gathered here. Holding a melee tourney with no entry fee has drawn them in like flies to honey. I’m sure there are no noble first sons in the mix nor any landed knights, but being in line to become lord of Tarth is a fine outcome if you’re a fifth son or a hedge knight.”

“I’ve heard she’s quite homely,” Pod said, “but she’s big and strong as any man.”

“Most men,” Jaime rumbled, amused. “But I am not like most men. I’ll set this matter to rights in no time. If she has the sense of an ox, she’ll yield as soon as she sees me.”

 

Lord Tarth welcomed the entourage from King’s Landing with exuberant hospitality. He made a fine guest suite available for Jaime and his squire and assured him that he would have a place of honor at the feast. “Are you here to compete yourself?” Lord Selwyn asked, eyes shining with hope.

Jaime took some cruel pleasure in bursting the deluded lord’s bubble. “If I must, though of course, as Kingsguard I could not accept your daughter’s hand. Rather, on behalf of the king, I would tender her back to you. Finding her a husband should not be difficult now, considering that all these men are ready to fight for her. I would hope, however, that she can be made to see reason. Were she to withdraw her name from the tourney, I would have no cause to enter, and the chips can fall where they may. Would that not be the best result, giving no embarrassment on your house’s storied name and maintaining our important traditions?” He finished with a charming smile, sure that he and the lord would be allies in this.

Lord Tarth wrung his hands. He was a good-sized fellow, obviously at one time a powerful warrior but now trending towards fat, much like their good king. Unlike most Stormlanders, he was fair of hair and pale of skin, the Andal stock on Tarth diluted little thanks to the island’s isolation. His brow furrowed as he spoke carefully.

“It grieves me that I must disappoint the king in this matter. Truly, I had no inkling that he would have any care about it. I have made a promise to my daughter, however, and would sooner die than break it. She has been my only heir these past ten years. I have done all I can to make her strong of body and will. Perhaps it now seems she’s grown too strong and unreasonably stubborn, but she will need these traits to rule someday.

“Entering the tourney to fight for herself is the first decision of any consequence she has made since becoming a woman grown. The people of Tarth respect her for it even if they think it a purely symbolic gesture. If I make her go back on it, she will lose their hearts before she ever becomes the Evenstar. No. I may not agree with her in this, but I will not forbid her to compete.”

“Well then, I suppose I must rest myself well tonight for the melee tomorrow,” Jaime said.

 

Jaime slept uncommonly well. He hadn’t realized how the constant noise of King’s Landing kept him from falling into his deepest sleep until he experienced the quiet of the island, with the soothing sea all around. It brought to mind his boyhood at Casterly Rock. His window there had looked out onto the sea – a different sea to be sure, but they they sounded and smelled much the same.

The morning of the tourney dawned clear and warm. King’s Landing would be sweltering in the heat, but Tarth’s fresh ocean breeze kept the temperatures quite comfortable. Once Jaime had dressed in his tournament garb and bade Pod help with with his golden armor, they made their way to the contest grounds.

Lord Tarth had wisely avoided having a joust even for entertainment because the assembly was simply not large enough. There was no true arena, but tiers of benches had been assembled in a circle around the largest courtyard. Sturdy barriers separated the combat arena from the spectators, though Jaime wouldn’t be surprised if a few fell during the fighting from the press of the crowd or the fury of the combat. Tarth’s sigil was painted everywhere, sun bursts and crescent moons on a field of azure and rose. Jaime found it garish in comparison to a dignified golden lion on crimson. The scene threatened to give him a headache.

The sea of smallfolk cheered as their various local favorites were announced. They showed no courtly restraint but bellowed even before the fighting began. None bellowed for him when he took the field, he noted. The king – or more probably the Kingslayer – was not well loved here, it seemed.

Of the maid in question, Jaime could tell little. She entered last to thunderous applause, clad head to toe in dented bronzed plate armor. He could see nothing of her body or face, but her obvious height and breadth of shoulders would have him unsure of her sex were she not wearing the Tarth tabard over her armor for all to see. Rather brave of her to paint a target on herself like that.

The combatants arranged themselves in a circle for the blessing. Tarth’s septon called upon the Father to ensure fair play, the Mother to protect all from serious harm, the Warrior to give them courage and strength, and so on. He waved his censer around, spending sweet smoke in a seven pointed star, and then bowed out into the stands. Jaime was fairly sure he saw him placing a wager.

Lord Tarth stood from his seat on the highest viewing booth. “Ladies and gentlemen, good knights, and citizens of the realm, welcome to my tournament. It is a rare event where the prize is not gold nor knighthood, but the hand of a noble daughter of the Stormlands, a maid of eighteen namedays. May you fight bravely and well, impressing all present with your valor.” He hadn’t mentioned that the maid herself was fighting, though everyone knew, but he did incline his head in her direction.

“Take your positions. Ready your weapons. And… FIGHT.”

 

The men (and woman) set to one another immediately. No one seemed eager to engage Jaime, so he had a moment to evaluate his opponents. There were around two dozen in all, though of those perhaps a third would not last the first clash. They had entered for experience and from having nothing to lose, perhaps thinking mercurial fate would smile upon them and win them a great prize. Of the rest, he could see some evidence of yard training but little true battle experience.

The lady herself was holding her own. She had height and reach on a knight whose red hair spilled from beneath his helm. House Connington, Jaime recognized by the griffin on his shield. An attainted house, stripped of all lands and reduced from their heights as close allies of the Targaryens to mere castellans. Ser Connington fought fiercely trying to gain another foothold of power for his family. The maid of Tarth deftly switched weapons from her longsword to a morningstar. Though its spikes were blunted, the heavy weapon quickly dented Connington’s armor in three places. When she caught him protecting his groin, she rang her morningstar against his helm and he went down stunned, perhaps unconscious.

Jaime fended off two unserious challengers without much consideration. He tried to stay out of the thick of the fighting. He intended to step in only if the event seemed to be going sideways. As soon as the maid fell, he’d bow out.

The maid stubbornly did not fall. She put lesser fighters in their place two and three at the time. She fought conservatively, allowing her opponents to tire themselves out with aggressive strikes then taking advantage when they were out of position. The more experienced knights saw through this strategy, but she was able to overwhelm them with skill and strength.

Jaime saw Ser Wagstaff go down to defeat under her assault. True, he had put on some years and weight since Jaime last met him, but he was a tried and proven warrior of the battlefield. Jaime began to wonder if she might not win this. But for him, that is.

She was morningstar-to-sword with another red-haired knight. This close to the Riverlands they were thick as fleas on a mule’s pelt. The knight was calling her a variety of unflattering names and yelling that she must submit to him. He was also losing. A thickly built boy of fourteen or so with coal black hair stepped up to cross swords with Jaime.

“What do you want with her, boy?” Jaime asked. “She’d tear you in two.” He couldn’t help himself. His pulse was speeding up and his blood was singing. Battle filled him with a euphoria like almost nothing else.

“If you’re what’s between me and a seat of my own, Kingslayer, then you have to go.”

Jaime recognized the stubborn set of the jaw, broad face, and rash nature. This lad was one of Robert’s by-blows for a certainty, bold and reckless enough to name him Kingslayer to his face. A bastard who felt he was due more. Also, if the king was any gauge, an entirely unsuitable husband for any lady.

Jaime smiled. Young men who were strong as bulls tended to be about as smart. He dodged the lad’s blows rather than waste energy in parrying them and darted in close. A weapon like a warhammer would serve the lad better; Jaime would perhaps mention that _after_ the fighting. He pounded several solid strikes into the boy’s mail and could feel that the layers of padding underneath were more muscle than cloth.

The flat of the bastard’s sword struck Jaime’s thigh more by chance than skill. It still nearly knocked him off his feet. _Gods, what will he be like when he gets his full growth_ , Jaime thought. He hopped back and knelt to drop his shield and draw out his dagger. The strategy was risky, but ‘craven’ was nowhere among the many names Jaime had been called. He charged forward again in position for a hard overhand strike. His foe lifted his sword high to meet it, probably thinking to overpower Jaime and push the sword down to pin it against Jaime’s chest. Jaime used his left hand to sneak the dagger under the lad’s mail shirt and against his belly.

“Yield,” Jaime growled, “or I spill you guts all over the ground.” The dagger was too blunt for that, but Jaime had rather lost track of where he was.

“I yield,” the boy said, his voice spiking an octave in terror.

“Well fought,” Jaime said, coming back to himself. “Well fought indeed. An investment in a warhammer would not go astray for you.”

The lad nodded and bowed out of the arena. Jaime looked around to see only the Tarth woman remaining, waiting politely to the side. Her red-haired challenger was being dragged from the arena by his feet, plainly unconscious. She could have intervened to help the bastard defeat him, thus choosing a less skilled final opponent. Allowing the matter to play out showed good sportmanship if little common sense. Surely even she knew of his reputation.

“My Lady of Tarth,” Jaime gave her a small bow around his readied sword.

“I’m no lady, Kingslayer,” she replied. “I fight today to relieve myself of any obligations in that area. I fight for my freedom.”

Jaime scoffed, “None of us are free. Haven’t you learned that yet, my lady? Children are bound to their parents; wives to their husbands; men to their liege lord. Even knights are slave to duty. What makes you better than everyone else?”

“I’m no better, I just want to choose my own path.”

“Very well, my willful lady. We’ll dance. But I warn you, I’ll not avoid stepping on your toes.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The lady of Tarth dipped her morningstar at Jaime as a signal she was ready to begin their duel. Every proud instinct in Jaime screamed at him to rush her with an all-out attack to swiftly put her in her place. Had he not witnessed several others fall to the same folly, he would have done it. Even so, parts of his mind whispered that she must be tiring by now. Only his battlefield experience that trained him to see what was truly present kept him from dashing himself against her cliff.

She stood firm, slightly hunched behind her shield, and patient. Jaime tried a few jabs at her less defended right side, and she blocked them easily. She struck out with the morningstar causing Jaime to give ground. She shifted position to keep him separated from the shield he dropped in his previous bout.

Jaime had unshakable confidence that he was the best sword on the island and perhaps the entire Seven Kingdoms. However, he could still lose if the giantess managed to strike his head or disarm him. He needed a way to level the playing field. The challenge returned the smile to his lips. One constant of the Stormlands was mud, and the helm the lady wore had no visor, only air holes and a slit for vision. If he could cause her to tumble, the churned up ground should do the rest.

He gave a fierce war cry of, “Casterly Rock,” and charged as if he intended to hack his way through her shield. She swung her morningstar in a sweeping arc in front of her that would have hurt quite a lot if Jaime had not timing his dodge properly. He pivoted to the side, then bulled straight into her right shoulder. Overbalanced from the heavy blow that missed its target, she and Jaime fell to the earth with her at the bottom of a crash of arms and armor.

Jaime’s sword flew from his hand at the impact, but he did manage to feed her a face full of mud before struggling to his feet again. He grabbed up the nearby sword and shield and prepared to end the match.

Lady Tarth scrambled to pull off her helm so that she could see again. Jaime felt a moment of pity for the poor homely creature with her broad muddy face, unruly sweat-plastered hair, and overly freckled skin. Only her improbably beautiful eyes kept her appearance from being a total loss. In fact, their bright blue pop of color from her otherwise mud-covered frame surprised Jaime enough that he missed the opportunity to immediately charge and put a sword to her throat.

She gained her feet more gracefully than Jaime would have thought likely and backed away until she found a discarded weapon. She picked up the sword and crouched into a defensive stance. Jaime noticed that she was now wielding his sword, whereas he had her shield and sword. Hers was longer and heavier, almost closer to a bastard sword than a longsword. Cersei would call her a freak, Jaime had no doubt, a misfit creature in mens’ mail who would rather wield a huge sword than an embroidery needle. Jaime found her rather interesting. Once he won the fight, they could have a nice conversation about her training and who she’d prefer for betrothal.

“Now would be a good time to yield,” he said. “You’ve lost your helm, shield, and favored weapon. Things are bound to get messier for you from here on out.”

She stubbornly shook her head. “I’m no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, but I’m Ser Jaime Lannister, knight of the Kingsguard. You’re not even a squire. Yield and save yourself some pain.”

She moved her sword into a two-handed grip. “Come on then, Kingslayer, if you think you’re able.”

Her taunt affected Jaime more acutely than his had struck her, mainly because he could tell she meant it. For the rest of his life no matter what else he accomplished, he would always be the Kingslayer. He put his fury and frustration into every blow, knocking her back and back and back. He refused to allow her a stable footing until she was trapped between him and the barrier separating them from the audience. He was drawing back his sword to deliver the coup de grace when she reached out, grabbed onto the shield and wrenched it from his arm. As the straps broke, he stumbled and she was able to squirm away.

“The stays on that shield never were tight enough,” she said mockingly.

Her sword was again at the ready and her eyes were serious. Jaime could now see that she would fight until she was no longer physically able. This much stubbornness was not fitting in a woman. Even Cersei had married when she was told. A quick flash of Lysa Tully blinked through Jaime’s mind. He had not followed his father’s plans, it was true, but dedicating his life to protecting the realm was a more noble goal for a knight.

They fought for real then, finally on an equal footing. Both found their techniques a bit awkward using unfamiliar weapons. She had to defend against moves she’d never seen from Ser Goodwin in the training yard; he had to get used to the unmistakably feminine grunts she’d let out on receiving a hard blow. The crowd showed its appreciation for the excellent display. The cheers were mostly – perhaps solely Jaime had to admit – for her, but their energy was invigorating none the less.

They pressed each other hard, no more feints or tricks but an all-out battle of steel on steel. Her youth and speed tested his experience and skill, and vice versa. Finally, the maid’s lack of helm led to trouble. Jaime had been avoiding targeting her head due to chivalry, but a wide open opportunity proved too tempting to resist. The flat of his sword struck her cheek, momentarily crossing her eyes into a daze. He brought his sword back down to rest against her neck.

“Y-” he began.

Pure panic came into her eyes, and she put all her strength behind a blow to break his hold. Her unfamiliar sword struck higher than she expected. It seemed to reverberate strangely in her hands as the blow landed. The thickest part of the blunt blade hit the wrist on Jaime’s swordhand, and the sickening crunch of breaking bone reached her ears. It was not the sharp snap of a clean break, but the sound of shattered chunks of bone grinding past one another. Ser Jaime dropped his sword and screamed.

 

Brienne’s victory at her own melee was a bit overshadowed by the dire injury she’d dealt the Kingsguard. The maester at Tarth was not one of the Citadel’s most skilled at healing, and for a while there was talk that he’d lose the hand. Fortunately, Jaime’s own stubborn refusal to accept that coupled with the skills of various retainers who’d been in attendance at the tourney, led to a better outcome. Lord Tarth made haste to assure the Crown that the Kingsguard would have every comfort as he healed.

Ser Jaime took the loss harder than Pod had ever seen. His spirits usually remained high even after defeat at tournament. While he never shamed himself, the consensus opinion of the professional booksmen held him to be too unserious about the sport. He was unparalleled in battle, but could not bring that level of competition to the arena. Pod had to conclude that he had tried his best and still fallen, a harsh blow for one so proud as his knight.

“A Kingsguard defeated by a woman. They’ll be mocking me at every inn and winesink from here to King’s Landing,” Jaime said.

“Not if they s-saw the fight, S-Ser,” Pod replied loyally.

“Sweet Pod, still so pure of heart. Why haven’t I beaten that out of you yet? No, the Kingslayer has no defenders… at least none not also named Lannister. They’ll say it proves I’m unsuited for the job of protecting the king. I can just hear them: ‘The blood of King Aerys curses his swordarm. He can’t even beat a woman now.’”

Pod mistook the drift of his words. “The break was bad, S-Ser, but the maester s-says it will heal g-good as new. The lady k-keeps trying to s-see you, but the milk of the poppy had you deep asleep.”

Jaime shuddered remembering fragments of the dreams that had tormented his slumber. He approached Cersei for an intimate embrace, but the closer he drew to her, the more hideous and twisted her features became. Joffrey sprayed poison from his mouth like a viper, then died choking on his own bile. A many-headed amalgam of a beast loomed over King’s Landing in a fog of avarice. And most bizarrely, the visage of the brutish lady of Tarth was slowly superimposed with that of the Maiden herself until he could no longer remember her former appearance.

“I did not sleep easy, but perhaps it was healing. Fetch the maester for me, Pod, so I can learn when I may leave this miserable rock.”

Pod scurried off, and Jaime lay back in bed. He’d heard about the deep-seated itch from mending bone, but had never experienced it himself before. He suspected it would grow more maddening as the pain faded away.

Instead of the maester, the lady of Tarth entered his chamber. She displayed evidence of a split lip, and recent bruises colored much of her visible flesh, but her pure blue eyes drew his attention from the rest.

“The forever maid of Tarth, what a pleasure to make your formal acquaintance,” Jaime said with no small trace of bitterness.

“Please call me Brienne,” she said. “Is there anything I can get for you? Would you care for some milk of the poppy?”

“Gods no. I haven’t taken a shit in a week,” Jaime said, enjoying the petty pleasure of the vulgarity. She did not seem shocked, however but remained annoyingly stoic and hospitable. “Do tell me, though, what have you decided for yourself now that you get to make the call? Or has it turned out like the dog who catches the shadowcat and has no idea what to do next?”

“I thought that escorting you back to King’s Landing once you can travel again would be the decent thing to do. While I’m there, I should make my apologies to the king. I will accept whatever counsel he offers, of course.”

“Well, that’s a bad idea. Robert is unpredictable. Not as whimsical or, frankly, as creative as Aerys, but you’ll find no answers there. He could be of a mind to appoint you to the Kingsguard or he could marry you off to his fool, Moon Boy. Hard to say. Depends on how much he has drunk and who is in attendance to impress or irritate. No, I don’t need your gallant presence guarding me. You should stay here, get to know your people. You’ve impressed them; they’ll open their hearts to you now. Perhaps there’s even a nice noble lad who was too intimidated to enter the tourney. Who’s to say?”

She looked around, flummoxed. “Maybe I should have let you win. It might be you’d have done me a favor.”

Jamie scoffed, not appreciating the ‘let you win’ bit. “Melodrama doesn’t suit you. You must at last face the facts. You’re a woman and the last blood heir to your house. You best course is still to marry and have children bearing the Tarth name. Why can’t you act properly and do your duty?”

“You would say this to me? A Kingsguard who killed his king? Seems to me that you rationalized away your vows of perfect loyalty and sacrifice at the first opportunity.”

Jaime’s passion boiled out of his weakened frame. “Not the first! Hardly the first! You know nothing of what you speak, of what I had to endure. My cloak is stained, I will forever be mocked, and I would do it again in an instant.”

Her belligerence was replaced by confusion. “Truly?”

“It was the right decision. I didn't do it for myself, or Robert, or my house, but for the realm. You have no idea. There are some costs that outweigh a man’s honor.”

“Tell me,” she whispered. For the first time since the slaying someone was finally ready to listen. Jaime’s tale poured out of him and the healing commenced.

 

Brienne tended to Jaime for the next two weeks, acting more the role of servant than lady of the castle. She could see the strength and haughty humor return to him day by day. Eventually, she had to agree with the maester that he could safely return to his duties at King’s Landing. The wrist may have some stiffness in certain weather, but the maiming should not be permanent.

An odd friendship evolved between the two with an exchange of letters (often covert on his part, as Cersei disapproved) while various wars raged across the Seven Kingdoms. With her father serving as Lord of Ships, Brienne wrote to Ser Jaime for advice about social mores and practical matters of governance. To his frequent inquiries about entertaining suitors, she always replied in the negative. Jaime found himself more and more often running matters of moral import by her for her guidance.

After many years when much and more happened to drive Jaime away from his sister and cause him to be dismissed from the Kingsguard, Brienne received a letter. “Noble ladies of the realm are invited to a tourney at Casterly Rock to compete for the hand of Ser Jaime Lannister.” Brienne had an intuition that she was the only person to receive this summons. She packed for the journey, bringing along her arms and armor just in case. Some things were worth fighting for.

 


End file.
